


The Nature of Survival

by RobinWritesChirps



Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Introspection, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Sad with a Happy Ending, set during and after Becky’s marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22877422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinWritesChirps/pseuds/RobinWritesChirps
Summary: Becky’s reflections on the natural world around her and her own evolving person. Introspective, not quite a character study but getting there.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	The Nature of Survival

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This fanfiction mentions/implies acts of abuse and physical violence. If this is something you don’t want or cannot read about, please skip this one.

Becky loved nature.

The lake was a bit chilly, probably a couple of weeks too early to be swimming, and she did take some convincing to venture into the waters. By the time she let the girls talk her into it, though, she would have never come out if she could. The water was a bit murky and icky, algae under her feet and her friends shrieked with disgust and amusement when a fish brushed against their legs. Even abandoned by them, Becky might have stayed in the lake on her own indefinitely if it hadn't been for Stanley calling her out.

She laid out a towel to sit next to him. He passed her his cigarette and she took a drag of it before handing it back. He was on his third beer, not buzzed yet but getting there. Becky pulled his arm around her and though her hair was still wet, he kept it there and let her toy with his fingers idly. It was her who broke from his embrace when she realized she had accidentally laid her towel over a nest of bugs. She laughed nervously, scooting away, and Stanley glanced down and broke into a grin.

"Come on," he said, "They're just bugs. Here."

He snorted and started to crush them between his fingers one by one. Becky pulled his arm to try and stop him.

"No, don't hurt them! They're just bugs..."

But that was a mistake. Becky seemed as of late to always make mistakes. Stanley's gaze turned cold and mean and he snatched his arm away.

"Shut the fuck up," he grumbled. "Never tell me what to do."

He crushed another, another, destroyed all of them until there were no more left. Never once did his cold staring eyes look away from Becky.

* * *

St Damian’s was bordered on the south by a lovely park where, if they were well enough and if their parents allowed it, the patients of the pediatrics wing played in the afternoon.

Becky had always loved children, years of babysitting in middle school, high school, looking after younger cousins and everything. For a while, she had entertained the idea of becoming a teacher, maybe in preschool, but Stanley had decided on her being a nurse and the thought had been forgotten. Her path had led her back to children either way, her natural desire to nurture and care for others.

When a pack of little children came rushing to her yelling in excitement and, she thought, panic equally, she feared some sinister accident, something to do with their already fragile health. The victim around which they all gathered, though, was no human. Victim nonetheless, the little birdie deserved all the care and nurture its new friends begged her to provide.

Becky loved birds. There was something free about them, the carelessness of choosing wherever they would go, never tied to a place or a person, wandering whichever way their hearts desired. They were elegant, too, a myriad of pretty colors and intricate patterns. She fed them every morning she went to work passing through the little park and lingered for a few minutes to enjoy the flock pecking at her gift. So beautiful, so free, yet all the more fragile for it.

For a few weeks, she nursed their very special patient back to health. It was installed in the bedroom of one of the bigger children, a teenager who she thought could be trusted not just to watch over it but to handle the band of children barging in every day in hospital gowns, some with their IV still plugged in and dragged around, some so close to release they looked from the outside just like any other healthy child. The little bird fallen from its nest was the subject of the most attention, the most tenderness from them all. When it was finally strong and big enough to venture out on its own, a small crowd of her little patients gathered to watch it take its first flight of freedom.

It never even saw where it was going. Mere seconds after flying off, it crashed into the windshield of a passing car with a spot of blood. It never flew again.

* * *

Like dogs could warn their owners about storms or hurricanes, Becky knew Stanley’s wrath before it was upon her.

"What the fuck is this?"

She tried one of her sweeter smiles, not too fake for fear he would be offended, not too subtle either so as for him to take her seriously. Her fingers caught into fluffy golden fur and petted gently.

"A coworker needed a dogsitter," she explained apologetically. "No one else could take him, she really insisted and then drove the dog here…"

Stanley glared at the golden retriever sitting obediently between her legs. He was a friendly dog, as far as Becky could say, who had known him for all of one fretful half an hour trying to find excuses to give Stanley and coming up short. She had told her coworker Stanley wasn’t great with pets, she had said their home wasn’t made for a dog, but the coworker had insisted and dropped the dog on her without taking no for an answer. Becky wasn’t very good at saying no and having it heard out.

"I’ll feed him and walk him," she promised. "His bed is over there, he won’t be a problem, it’s only a couple of weeks."

Stanley groaned.

"You’re really a dumb pushover," he told her and passed wife and dog without another word for the moment on his way to get a beer in the kitchen.

The first time he tried to hit her that night, blaming her for one thing or another, the dog barked and put himself between the threatening fist and Becky’s cowering form. Stanley huffed, but dropped the fist. Becky wondered if she loved dogs but was far too cautious to let herself take the victory. Help, she had learned, was always always at a cost and she was always the one cashing it out.

The second time she made Stanley upset, he kicked her and the dog’s fangs bit down on his leg in protection or revenge. He cursed at him and tried to hit Becky again but the dog was well between them now and would not let him touch her again. Becky’s face was drenched with tears. She didn’t cry anymore when he hit her, not every time at least, because she knew it awakened some guilt in him and he blamed her for every emotion that tugged at him wrong. She supposed she did another thing wrong there.

"Stupid fucking dog," he snarled.

Brave and in this moment so much fiercer than her, the dog was after all still just a dog and Stanley managed with great difficulty to drag him by the collar and shove him out the back door into their small yard. The dog spent the rest of the two weeks in the yard and Becky grew terrified of the sound of barking, as if the walls were nothing to him, for he always knew when Stanley was hurting her. She wasn’t so sure she liked dogs anymore.

* * *

Winter came one year and Becky had the house to herself again. Even moreso, she had the freedom to leave it as she pleased and she would take walks around, find herself again in the quiet of nature.

The pond on her walk to the store froze over all throughout winter, but Becky could still see the fish underneath if she pushed the snow to peer under clear ice. Barely moving, stuck in place there, trapped by circumstances beyond their control or appreciation. She stopped by the pond every so often and noted how much or how little they had moved since her last time.

At the grocery store, she heard the loud whispers spread by taunting smirking faces she barely knew anymore. Her husband had left her, they accused and said quite a bit more of what they thought that meant on her character. Another woman in Clivesdale was what their story pointed to, younger and more beautiful. She had never been that pretty, had she? Little miss perfect through school and after, nothing beyond average about her. No wonder he had gotten bored. She wanted to say something as she passed them. She looked down and pushed her cart past in silence instead.

When winter thawed, so did the fish. Still in the slur of their cold trap, still wobbling and awkward, but they moved and lived. Maybe that was enough. Maybe in the summer they would thrive again.

* * *

A stray cat had a litter around the corner in the spring. A neighborhood kid came to Becky specifically to tell her all about it and together they carried a cardboard box with a warm blanket inside to lure the fuzzy family into being transported. For days and weeks, the kittens were the animation of the kids of her street and every night after her shift came little children begging to come see the mama cat. The parents were talked with and each of the kittens was promised a home. When the ten week mark came, her home was a flutter of small grabby hands come to get their due and Becky was left alone to comfort the mother once all furry balls had been dispatched.

The cat never went back to the street. Becky had tricked her into affection by then and no matter how often freedom was offered, she stuck inside, more homey than ever. For the kittens, Becky had already bought bowls and litter boxes and beds. She supposed she would not need to get rid of them after all. The cat was kept and spayed and loved.

She was a beaten little cat. Worse for the wear after likely her whole life on the street, she had been all hisses and scratches at first but weeks of good care had made her tolerate human presence quite well. Occasionally, she sat on the couch next to Becky and sometimes even let herself be petted. Becky was glad to be able to admire the patchy ginger fur, to have a friendly life in the house with her. One ear had been cut and was missing a large chunk that must have healed painfully and slowly. She bore a scar across her tail, probably something running over it. Her left eye was blind and she had been festering with fleas when Becky had found her. She was alive, though. She had pushed through. She was strong.

Becky woke at night from a feverish nightmare. She had not slept well in years, of course. The fears of the past dragged her down, kept her on the edge. When she heard the cracking of floorboards across the hall, she thought she knew he had finally come to get his revenge. Her heart caught in a relentless race and she felt her eyes well up with tears.

She could not have loved the little cat more when she, and not the ghost of her monster of a husband, appeared at the doorway.

"Oh my god," she blurted out and rushed to pick up the cat in her arms, hugging her tight and close and the cat, who had never been overly affectionate, let herself be petted to Becky's comfort and relief. Tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. "Oh my god, it's just you."

The cat marked her entrance in every room by a friendly meow from then on. The instinct to fear, the instinct to nurture, the urge to survive for better or for worse. Cat and woman understood each other perfectly well after all.


End file.
